


two gentlemen of brooklyn

by rooonil_waazlib



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Idiots in Love, M/M, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooonil_waazlib/pseuds/rooonil_waazlib
Summary: "Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits."- William Shakespeare,The Two Gentlemen of Verona,Act I, scene 1-They don’t do this all the time—they’re roommates, after all, not boyfriends—and the last time was a few months ago, but somehow Bucky still knows all the places that make Steve gasp.-Or, five times Steve and Bucky weren't married, but sort of were, and the time they figure it out.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 109
Kudos: 621





	1. Chapter 1

_BB: aw, ur cookin me dinner? ur the best housewife (;_

Steve rolls his eyes and puts his grocery basket down so he can type with both hands.

_SR: i was planning to, but only if you tell me what you want to eat_

_BB: o rite. pasta carb? pls pls pls???_

Grinning, Steve hoists his basket again and heads for the bacon. He does, after all, make the best spaghetti carbonara in the world. Bucky’s told him so.

He’s just rendering the fat off the bacon, watching the onions go transparent, when Bucky gets home. Sticking his hand into his pocket, he turns the volume down on his phone so that he can hear over the music as Bucky kicks off his shoes, dumps his jacket somewhere that sounds like the floor, and heads for his bedroom. Steve cranks the music down even further and gives the pan a little shake.

It’s not long before the door to Bucky’s bedroom opens again, before Steve hears his shuffling footsteps come closer. “Hey,” Bucky says when he gets to the kitchen.

“Go hang up your jacket, you neanderthal,” Steve replies.

Bucky sighs. “Worst housewife,” he mutters, but at least he does as he’s told. When he comes back he heads straight for Steve, oozing right up against his back and sticking his nose into Steve’s ear. “Smells amazing.” He mouths at the edge of Steve’s jaw. “Mm, _best_ housewife.”

“Quit calling me that,” Steve says, but he’s tipping his head already, giving Bucky more space to put his lips.

Bucky’s hand rides up his side, over his shoulder, against the other side of his jaw so he can nudge Steve’s head around and press their mouths together. Kissing is probably Bucky’s greatest talent, and Steve blindly puts down his spatula so he can turn fully, wrap an arm around Bucky’s neck, sigh into his mouth. Bucky sucks a little on his lip, backing Steve up hard against the counter, an arm around his waist, their bodies pressed together all the way to their knees. The bottom of Steve’s spine goes warm, liquid.

Something sizzles particularly loud, and then a splatter of hot fat hits Steve’s arm. He jerks back, trying to untangle from Bucky so he can have a look and see if he’s burned. “Fuck, ow.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, not sounding all that sorry, “I shouldn’t have distracted you.” He backs off, letting Steve move back to the stove and poke at the pan with his spatula. “What can I do?”

“I need you to open the wine,” Steve tells him. He gestures with his spatula in the direction of the white cooking wine he’d pulled from the fridge. “And measure me out a quarter-cup.”

“Are we drinking this?” Bucky asks as he wanders in the direction of the drawer where they keep the bottle opener. “There’ll be plenty left over.”

“It won’t be very tasty.” Steve watches as Bucky waves the open bottle under his nose. His sense of smell is better than Steve’s, but Steve’s wine knowledge is a little better. “I thought we could drink that bottle of red. The white can go back in the fridge to cook with again.”

“Wine-and-dining your own roommate, Steve, you dog,” Bucky says, although he’s already twisting the corkscrew into the red.

Steve rolls his eyes. “I just knew that if I didn’t make you some extra, you’d come home and scarf all my leftovers.”

Bucky grins at him, unapologetic, and holds out a glass, one of the nice low tumblers they use when they’re trying to seem fancy. When Steve takes it they clink glasses, and for a second neither of them speaks while they take their first sips. “It’s good,” Bucky finally says. “Do I taste—vanilla?”

“Maybe, yeah,” Steve agrees, and tries another sip. “Yeah, somewhere in there. Bit of black pepper, maybe, too.”

“It’s good,” Bucky says. He tips his glass in a circle and finally sets it down on the counter. “I’ll set the table.”

“Actually—” Steve points to two hunks of cheese he’d cut, still sitting on the cutting board next to the grater. “Cheese first. Then you can deal with the table.”

They’ve just finished eating when the front door opens again; Clint comes careening in, halfway out of his jacket, one shoe flipping up behind him as he kicks it off. “You guys would not _believe_ —” he starts, then pauses. “No candles?”

“The only candles we’ve got in this whole place are the stupid disgusting cinnamon ones Steve’s not allowed to light when I’m in the house,” Bucky says mildly. “What wouldn’t we believe?”

Clint’s eyes track over the table: the remains of the meal; the little pile of roasted mushrooms Steve’s pushed to the side of his plate with the expectation that Bucky will snipe them in a minute; the mostly empty wine bottle. He blinks, slow. His jacket is still hanging off of him by one sleeve. “So I accidentally used Nat’s favorite lotion for—you know, stuff—and she kicked me out.”

“‘Stuff’?” Steve asks. “Do we want to know?”

Finally Clint sets about getting his jacket off the rest of the way. “Well see, I got my foot stuck in that little space between the back of the toilet and the wall, right, and the only thing I could reach that might help was this lotion.” He turns and hangs his jacket—Steve kicks Bucky, hoping he gets the hint that even Clint hangs up his goddamned jacket—and walks over, pulling out a glass and helping himself to a splash of wine. “But it turns out, and don’t ask me how the fuck Nat started using anything this expensive, that this lotion is like sixty bucks a tube.” He takes a long sip of his wine, sighs, and shrugs. “So here I am.”

“How did you…” Bucky hesitates, then shakes his head. “You know what, never mind. That’s an _insane_ amount for lotion, what the fuck.”

“That’s what I said!” Clint agrees. “And anyway, she should know by now that if she’s going to leave stuff that’s that expensive in my house, it’s going to get broken, used, or probably moldy.” He takes another drink of his wine, leaving just a little left in the glass. “Can you guys help me write a text that will get her to let me come home tonight? You’re both better than me at it.”

Bucky puts his face in one hand, reaching over with his other and spearing a few chunks of mushroom from Steve’s plate. “Christ. Just tell her you’ll buy her more lotion.”

“I would, if I could afford it,” Clint says. He grabs Steve’s fork and uses it to scoop up a few stray pieces of roasted broccoli left in the serving bowl. “But I can’t, so. Got any other ideas?”

“Beg,” Steve suggests. “It’s what I do every time Bucky locks me out.”

Clint’s face does something complicated. “And that happens...how often, exactly?”

“Weekly,” Bucky says. “Every time I find his dirty running socks under the coffee table.”

“It’s not weekly,” Steve protests. “Anyway, I had to ask you _two hours ago_ to hang up your fucking jacket. Which Clint did all on his own. Even _Clint_ can do it, Bucky.”

Bucky turns to look at Clint, as if waiting for him to defend himself, but Clint, looking up from his phone, just shrugs. “I’ve decided to lean in to what a disaster I am,” he says. “And yet I still hang up my jacket.” His phone bings as he’s drinking back the last of his wine, and he glances at it and brightens. “Oh, hey! She’s taking me back!” Standing, he leans over the vegetable bowl and steals another few pieces of broccoli, then heads for the door. He’s still wearing one shoe. “Good timing, huh? I’m not going to have to listen to you two nag each other all night. Bye.”

For a long moment after the door closes neither Steve nor Bucky speaks. Finally Bucky turns to look at him. “I hang up my jacket usually,” he says.

“Once a week,” Steve replies. “When I ask you to.”

“No—come on, no, I remember to do it myself at least once a week. Now you’re just being unfair.”

It isn’t until Steve’s sluggishly peeling himself off the couch to go to bed that Bucky catches his wrist. “Hey,” he says, and Steve looks down at him where he’s still spread along his half of the sofa. He’s looking drowsy himself, eyes only half-open—but then he licks his lips, and it’s not drowsy, is it, but flirtatious. “Hey, thanks for making me dinner.”

The air in their apartment is different, suddenly: quiet and electric, like everything is holding its breath. “Thanks for not eating all my leftovers,” Steve replies, but his words don’t really seem to matter much as Bucky gets to his feet, slipping into Steve’s personal space so easily it’s like they’re part of each other.

And then they’re kissing, breathless in the span of a blink. Steve gives himself over to it, the pull and push, the gasp, the tight hand at the crown of his hip. He grabs at Bucky’s waist, knowing how his weight will feel on top of him.

“Your room, or mine?” Bucky asks, every word warm and buzzy against Steve’s lips.

“Yours,” Steve says. “Think I’m out of condoms.”

Bucky leans back to look at him. “You were at the store literally today.”

“Yeah, well, how was I supposed to know bacon gets you rock fucking solid?”

Making a grumpy noise in his throat, Bucky pokes at Steve until he starts walking. “We’ve been roommates for six goddamn years, Steve. You should know these things about me by now.” It’s not until Steve’s near to Bucky’s bedroom door that he’s up against his back, his breath hot in his ear, grabbing at his ass. “Plus, coming home to you cooking me dinner like a good little housewife? _So_ sexy.”

Steve turns, taking hold of one of Bucky’s wrists and yanking him forward, into him, so they’re stumbling and kissing and pulling at one another’s clothes. Suddenly he’s on his back on Bucky’s bed; suddenly Bucky’s bending over his hips, kissing at his belly button while he wrestles with Steve’s fly; suddenly he’s trying not to jerk up into the heat of Bucky’s mouth closing on his cock.

“Fuck,” he gasps, head knocking back against Bucky’s bunched-up sheets. He arches and feels as Bucky’s hand follows, traces the high curve of his belly, his chest, his throat, before finding his nipple through his shirt and rubbing it hard. “ _Fu-ck_.”

Then Bucky bobs his head, takes his dick deeper until the head of it nudges against his soft palate, and Steve honest to god sees stars. It shouldn’t surprise him, not after how many times they’ve done this, but it does: how easy it is for Bucky to get him here, get him begging and panting and squirming for it. He can’t help rocking his hips, following the motion of the hot clutch of Bucky’s mouth.

His hands find Bucky’s hair, something to hold on to; after a second Bucky looks up, letting Steve’s dick slide from between his lips. “Hey,” he says. When Steve doesn’t immediately open his eyes, Bucky taps the back of his thigh. Steve opens his eyes to look at him, feeling a flush crawl over the back of his neck. “Grab the lube.”

Steve has to squirm up the mattress more to reach the bedside table; Bucky follows, still knelt between his knees. As Steve digs in the drawer, half-turned on his side, his knee pressing against Bucky’s side, Bucky leans over him, tugging Steve’s jeans down his thighs.

They don’t do this all the time—they’re roommates, after all, not boyfriends—and the last time was a few months ago, but somehow Bucky still knows all the places that make Steve gasp. He brushes them all now, with hands and lips and teeth, and Steve can’t do much more than lie under him and tremble.

Then finally Bucky’s in him, sitting up just enough to watch, his nails scraping over Steve’s chest. Steve hikes his leg up Bucky’s side a little more, stretches his arms up above his head in that way that makes Bucky’s dark eyes trail after him. It makes Bucky’s head dip, his hips circling, and then he leans forward, down, to whisper something filthy into Steve’s ear.

Steve gasps, chases him on the outstroke with his pelvis. There’s something about Bucky’s warm voice on his skin that always makes him shiver, and he’s pretty sure Bucky knows it, exploits it.

“Fuck,” Steve hisses, and Bucky chuckles. In retaliation, Steve runs both of his hands through Bucky’s hair, pushing it back from his face, then forward again—then he grips it, hard, and Bucky’s head tips into it, his hips stutter, his eyes practically roll up into his head. “Come on, gimme it.”

Bucky’s eyes blink open, hazy. “You first,” he says, and then his slick lips split into that wild grin; he rolls his hips deliberately, wraps his hand around Steve’s dick. Tipping his head back, Steve groans, jerking up, down, into Bucky’s hand, onto his dick. “Yeah, you like it like that, I know.”

Steve can’t help himself; it hits hard, deep, and it’s only when he gets his eyes open that he realizes Bucky’s coming too, his head still tipped into Steve’s grip on his hair. As Bucky’s hips slow, Steve loosens his fist, combing his hair back from his face instead. After a second Bucky sits back, raking his fingers into his own hair too, a little tacky with sweat. His eyes, a bit shiny, track up Steve’s chest, and he hums low in his throat.

He leans close again, his body a prowling stroke in the darkness, and runs his teeth up the edge of Steve’s ear. Steve shivers again, arches into him. “Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, then nudges his nose against the curve of Steve’s jaw. “Now get the hell out of my bedroom.”

“No,” Steve replies. “Your bed is bigger than mine.”

“I know it is. That’s why I bought it for myself. Plus, you stink.”

“ _You_ stink,” Steve says, because it’s true: between the two of them the room is starting to feel stuffy and sweaty.

Finally Bucky flops down next to him. “Not as bad as you,” he says, and elbows Steve right in the ribs.

For once, Steve manages to gain the upper hand: he grabs Bucky by the skull and noogies him viciously. Bucky, yelling, flails and finally manages to turf Steve off the mattress and onto the floor.

“Fine,” Steve says, sitting up. “I’m going to get in the shower before you.”

And then he takes off, Bucky still yelling and pounding after him. He slams the bathroom door behind himself and hears Bucky run into it just after, but he’s already turned the shower on and leapt in, even though the water is frigid. He breathes through his teeth until the water warms—but by that point Bucky’s let himself into the bathroom.

He rips back the shower curtain on the tiny cubicle, barely inches wider than Steve’s shoulders. “Shove over,” he says, and doesn’t wait for Steve to refuse, shoving him over himself with his own bulk. “I said, shove _over_.”

Steve shoves him back, but there’s hot water pouring into his eyeballs and Bucky’s dick is near his and it’s all very distracting really. “There isn’t room, Bucky,” he says, pushing, “ow! Buck—how are either of us going to get clean like this!”

“Here, I’ll help you,” Bucky says, and Steve feels him shift a little more, but he still can’t see for the water in his eyes. Then something cold and slick pours, slow, onto the top of his head. “Don’t move or you’ll get shampoo in your eyes.”

And then Bucky gets to work scrubbing, and Steve had thought kissing was Bucky’s greatest talent, but—fuck. He tips his head into Bucky’s palms and suddenly feels like he understands why Bucky likes having his hair pulled so much. He stops trying to scuffle him out of the shower stall; his hands settle somewhere on Bucky’s warm skin, leaning into him a little.

“Feel good?” Bucky asks, his voice low. Steve nods; he can’t open his mouth or it’ll all come spilling out, just how good it feels. “Yeah, I know. God, you’re needy. Turn around.”

Steve does so, or tries to—he bangs his elbow on the wall, his knee on Bucky’s. Bucky’s hand skates up his throat, tipping his chin back until the back of his head rests on Bucky’s shoulder, and then Bucky’s rinsing his hair clean.

“Thanks,” Steve says.

“Welcome,” Bucky replies, then slaps him on the ass. “Now turn around and wash my hair, you lazy shit.”


	2. Chapter 2

The thing is they’ve never won trivia before, so they’ve got to celebrate. Plus the prize for the winning team was a free pitcher of the seasonal beer on tap. It’s gross, some sort of weird raspberry sour thing, so they have to have another beer afterward to wash away the flavor of it.

And then they’re drunk, so it seems like a great idea to have another beer.

By the time they stumble out of the bar, Steve is starving. “Let’s get falafel,” he says, leaning on Bucky as they wait for the light to change.

“Oh, _yeah,_ let’s—yeah,” Bucky agrees, and they head toward their favorite falafel truck. Steve leaves a big tip, like he always does, and Bucky almost forgets to pay entirely, like he always does, and leaves a big tip in apology, like he always does.

Steve eats three-quarters of his falafel before they even make it home, but Bucky manages to hold off until they’re in the kitchen, Steve plowing through the last of his with his hands. Bucky even grabs a fork, like some kind of adult.

“Hey,” Steve says as Bucky leans against the counter and carves a portion of his falafel out with his fork. “Hey, I’m still hungry.”

Bucky regards him without lifting his head, just his eyes gleaming up though the rest of his face is still tilted toward his takeout container. “Bummer,” he says. “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge.”

“I don’t want pizza.”

After a long pause, Bucky points at the pantry. “So grab a granola bar.”

“Can I have some of your falafel?” Steve asks, stretching his upper body out over the table and trying to give Bucky his best puppy dog eyes.

But Bucky doesn’t seem impressed. “It’s spicy,” he says. “And we both know you’ll just blame me later when it’s too much for you.”

“ _Please,_ Bucky.”

Finally Bucky looks up completely, giving an exhausted sigh. “No, Steve. You really won’t like it. I promise.”

“This time I will,” Steve says. Bucky rolls his eyes at him. “I won’t blame you if I don’t like it.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, chewing slowly. “One bite,” he concedes, “ _one,_ and then you’re having cold pizza.”

“One bite,” Steve agrees. He leans forward eagerly as Bucky comes close, reaching for the fork, but Bucky pulls it back.

“No. I’m picking which bite,” he says, stabbing at a bit of falafel and smearing it back and forth through the yogurt.

“Rude,” Steve snarks, making a face at him, but Bucky doesn’t seem disturbed by that.

“If I let you pick the bite, it’ll be eight times bigger than a normal human bite,” he says, “and you’ll take the bit with all the hot sauce, and then you’ll just whine at me about how bad your mouth hurts. Open up.”

Steve does as he’s told, giving Bucky the puppy eyes again. He’s too drunk to notice the little smile that flickers across Bucky’s face for half a second. Instead he just obediently closes his mouth around Bucky’s fork, chews, and howls as the hot sauce hits.

Scooping up another pile of yogurt with a sigh, Bucky feeds him that too, then puts the fork in the container and the container on the counter so he can get the vanilla ice cream out of the freezer. He skids it across the table along with a spoon and goes back to his falafel while Steve holds a big scoop of ice cream on his tongue, cheeks red.

“I told you,” Bucky says.

“I know,” Steve replies, his consonants mangled by the spoon in his mouth. “I should have listened.”

They finish their snacks in silence but for Steve’s occasional little whimpers. Finally, Bucky dumps his takeout container and puts the pint of ice cream, much reduced in weight, back in the freezer. He even washes Steve’s spoon and wipes up the sticky little puddle of melted ice cream on the table while Steve puts his head down on his arms.

“You’re so nice to me,” Steve mumbles. “Thanks for…being so nice to me.”

Bucky rolls his eyes again, but he’s smiling, and this time Steve notices and grins back. “Get up,” Bucky finally orders, but his voice is low, kind. “Get up, Rogers, let’s go. It’s bedtime.”

Steve obliges, nearly tipping over his chair as he gets out of it. He wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders as he comes around the table, his other around his waist, and smacks a big kiss to his cheek. “I love you, man,” he tells Bucky, who pats him on the back, stumbling along next to him like he’s trying not to get his neck broken.

“Yeah, Steve, love you too,” he says, muffled against Steve’s armpit.

They pause in front of Steve’s bedroom door, and Steve releases Bucky so he can stand up straight. Steve flattens his hands on either side of Bucky’s face and pulls him in for another smacker, and another, until Bucky’s eyes are shut tight against the onslaught. “The _best,_ ” Steve says. “Hey, you want me to blow you?”

“Not when you’ve been eating spicy food, I don’t,” Bucky says, his eyes still shut.

“I bet it’ll be fine,” Steve says.

Bucky pinches him and gently pulls his hands away from his face. “I’m not risking it. Anyway, state you’re in, you’d probably choke on it, and not in the good way.”

“I’m sober,” Steve says.

Raising his eyebrows, Bucky nudges Steve’s shoulder. He tips and has to catch himself on the doorframe. “Yeah, okay, whatever you say,” Bucky snorts. “Sleep it off, and we can discuss BJs in the morning.”

He turns to go, but Steve grabs him back. “Hey, wait.”

“What?”

Swinging his arms, Steve gives another set of puppy eyes. “Tuck me in?”

This time Bucky can’t seem to resist; he points at the bed, and Steve goes, pausing only to leave his jeans on the floor. Bucky scoops them up, tossing them flat on the bench at the end of the bed, and once Steve’s climbed in, he leans over him, pulling the covers up all the way to his chin. He picks up the glass of tepid water on the bedside and passes it over. “Drink all of this,” he orders.

Steve does as he’s told and passes the empty glass back, water shining on his upper lip as he settles into his pillow. He flattens his palms against one another and tucks his hands under his cheek, closing his eyes with a little smile on his face as Bucky pulls the covers up again. “G’night, Bucky,” he mumbles.

“Night, Steve. I’ll get you more water.”

When he returns with the cup and a couple of Advil to leave on the bedside table, it looks like Steve’s already asleep, his mouth a little open, his knees clearly pulled up against his chest under the blanket. Bucky puts down the water and the pills and turns off the lamp, taking a second to rub a hand over Steve’s hair.

Steve mumbles about it.

Pulling back the covers, Bucky pokes Steve in the chest a couple of times until his sleepy noises turn a little more alert. “Make room,” Bucky says, undoing his fly and dropping his jeans on the floor too while Steve shuffles over without protest. He climbs in and pulls the blanket back up, punching at Steve’s pillow until it’s a better shape for his head. Then he reaches back and grabs for Steve’s wrist, hauling it around himself.

“Your bed’s bigger,” Steve reminds him, and yawns right in his ear.

Bucky wrestles him closer. “Yeah, but yours is more comfortable.”

“Only when I’m alone in it.”

“You can go sleep in my bed if you want,” Bucky says, but he’s still got his hand tight around Steve’s wrist.

Steve seems to consider for a minute, or maybe he’s just falling asleep again. Finally he makes a low rumbling sound in his throat and tightens his arm around Bucky. “Nah. You’re warm. Guess I’ll survive it.”


	3. Chapter 3

The microwave beeps, and Steve waits a second for the last few pops of the popcorn. “Hey,” Bucky yells from the other room, “hurry up!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve pulls the popcorn bag out of the microwave and shakes it before opening it, tilting it away from himself so the steam doesn’t burn him. He pours the popcorn into a bowl and heads for the living room, shaking the bowl a little so that the unpopped kernels sink to the bottom.

“Jesus, finally,” Bucky says as Steve ensconces himself on the sofa, putting the popcorn on the cushion just between them. “What took you so long? Are you finally ready to start?”

Steve gives him the finger, which Bucky takes correctly to mean he should press the play button on the remote. The sound of a jet flying fills the dark room; after a second it appears on the TV.

They make it only as far as the plane falling out from below Bane and the doctor before Bucky turns to Steve, his lip curled. “Is this movie really this awful?” he asks.

“God, apparently,” Steve replies.

“Fuck,” Bucky says with feeling. “What a waste of time.” They watch for another minute or so, but finally Bucky grabs the popcorn bowl and moves it to the coffee table. “Hey, I got a better idea.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve asks.

Bucky turns to face him, his expression difficult to make out, backlit as he is by the screen. “Yeah.” Steve almost misses it, the sinuous twist of his body as he turns himself into Steve’s lap.

“Oh,” Steve says again. “Hey.”

Bucky doesn’t bother to answer; forearms propped on the back of the couch next to Steve’s head, he leans in, and it’s only natural for Steve to tip his head into the kiss. He gathers a handful of Bucky’s t-shirt in his fist, his other hand grabbing at Bucky’s hip, his thigh.

Pressing his body closer under Steve’s hand, Bucky hums. Obligingly, Steve puts his hands where Bucky’s body tells him to. “Yeah, this is a better use of time,” Bucky murmurs. He nudges at Steve’s shoulder until he shifts to lie down, and for a second they both shuffle around, getting comfortable, getting close. Then, Bucky stretching along Steve’s front, halfway on top of him, they align again. Bucky nips at Steve’s mouth, teasing, his lips just barely brushing against Steve’s without actually kissing. Steve, impatient, pulls at him, leaning up at the same time, and Bucky lets him have it, slow.

They don’t rush about it; Bucky’s hand stays on Steve’s face for so long that when he finally moves it, Steve’s cheek is cool. He puts his arm around Steve’s waist, shifting a little closer, the inside of his thigh sliding up the outside of Steve’s. Steve exhales, spreading his hand over Bucky’s ass and pulling on him until their hips are lined up.

Behind them, Bane yells, “Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.” But for a pause in their kissing to laugh softly, neither of them acknowledges it.

It burns slow, hot, Bucky’s body rocking against Steve’s. Neither of them goes for skin; instead every touch is made through their clothing, made somehow both more muted and hotter at the same time.

Eventually they lapse from kissing, and instead just lie there, the movie playing in the background, neither of them paying any attention. Bucky’s hand trails from Steve’s hip to his shoulder and back, gentle, and Steve slips into half-sleep.

They don’t even get to see Batman.

“So you can’t even blame me for not getting your _Dark Knight Rises_ jokes,” Steve finishes, grinning smugly at Sam. “Me and Bucky were busy.”

Sam just stares at him for so long that Steve waves a hand in front of his face, worried he’s fallen asleep or something. “What—hey, quit it,” Sam says, slapping his hand out of his face. “I can’t believe you just told me that story. I’m never going to be able to watch that movie again without thinking of you and Bucky doing heinous things to each other.”

“Hey, we were just making out.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, picking up his pint and pausing before he takes a sip to say, “because you’re a couple of old married people.”

Steve glares. “We’re not married yet.”

Choking on his beer, Sam puts his glass down. “‘Yet’? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well we’ve got the pact,” Steve says. “Remember? If Bucky and I are both still single at forty, we’ll get married to each other.”

Sam just blinks at him, so Steve smiles.

“But we’re only twenty-seven, so we’ve still got thirteen whole years.”

Letting out a long slow breath, Sam puts his face into one hand. Steve waits to see if he’s going to say anything. “Thirteen whole years,” Sam finally says. “Thirteen! Jesus H. Christ. Where’s Nat—I can’t do this for thirteen more years alone.”

Steve takes a drink of his beer, tips his head. “Can’t do what for thirteen more years alone?” He reaches for Sam. “Sam, Nat’s got Clint. You know that, right?”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam says again. “Jesus _Christ_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so yeah sorry this took so long, life is being life and stuff. [my tunbles!](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i really have to say anything about how difficult quarantine is? it's difficult. i'm having a hard time doing anything remotely productive.

Steve’s reading emails on the couch when Bucky comes in, way earlier than he’d expected for a Saturday night. He looks up, watches as Bucky kicks off his shoes and leaves his jacket on the floor.

“Uuuuugh,” Bucky says, crossing to the couch and falling face-down onto it, landing across Steve’s lap.

“Oh?” Steve asks, patting Bucky’s back.

“Jenna dumped me,” Bucky says, his voice muffled against the cushion next to Steve’s leg.

Steve switches from patting his back to rubbing. “For a specific reason?” he asks. “Or just because she couldn’t stand to look at your face for a seventh date?”

At this, Bucky props himself on his elbows and cranes his neck so he can look at Steve over his shoulder. He’s got that pinched thoughtful look on his face. He still smells good, his hair artfully tousled the way he’d spent half an hour doing before he left. “I don’t—I’m not sure I really got it,” he says. “She said I didn’t seem _in it_.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Fuck if I know,” Bucky says, and collapses back down. “Hey, rub my back some more.”

Steve obliges. “You know, it’s only eight,” he says.

“I know,” Bucky mumbles. He sighs, his breath warm even through Steve’s pant leg. “Ugh.”

Smoothing out a wrinkle on the back of Bucky’s shirt, Steve pokes the tail of it back into his waistband. “You want to go back out?” he asks. “We can get plastered if you want.”

Bucky hums as he thinks about it, his legs kicking slowly at the other end of the couch. “Yeah,” he finally says, “yeah, why don’t we. That sounds like fun.”

They almost break the lock on their way in, Steve trying to aim his key properly, one eye shut, tongue sticking out, Bucky groping and grabbing at him, pressing him up against the door so his key bends treacherously rather than turning. Steve gasps—“Hh— _fuck_ —” and shoves back on Bucky, twisting his head so his ear is tugged from between Bucky’s teeth so he can get the door open and his key out before it gets any further bent.

Stumbling in, Steve drops his keys in the bowl—misses, and they hit the floor—the door slams shut behind Bucky, who crowds up against his back, walking them toward the couch. One of them kicks the keys, which skitter off somewhere, hit a wall, and then Steve’s knees hit the couch and his face hits the cushion. Bucky follows him down, giving Steve just long enough to turn over before he’s climbing into his lap.

In the dark quiet they kiss, frenzied, yanking at one another’s clothes. Bucky sits up a little, just enough to pull his shirt up over his head and toss it somewhere behind him, his body lit harsh and orange from the streetlights. When his face appears, he grins at Steve, wolfish, beautiful.

Steve had actually liked Jenna.

“Get that off,” Bucky says, jerking his chin at Steve’s shirt, and Steve’s hands go to his buttons without thought. He fumbles with them, undoing them by feel as he watches Bucky’s hands drop to his belt, unzip his fly.

Finally Bucky leans back over him; skin to skin, they stretch out along the sofa. Steve finds his hand down the back of Bucky’s jeans, pulling on the shape of Bucky’s ass so that their hips roll in the same tempo.

“ _God,_ ” Bucky breathes, his breath warm against Steve’s hair. “God, yeah, you—this is—”

Steve tips his head back, letting Bucky at his throat as he aligns the hard line of his own cock against Bucky’s. They both moan, Bucky’s voice warm and buzzing against Steve’s skin, as warm and buzzing as Steve’s insides feel. He swears, letting Bucky sit up a little again and watching Bucky as he watches him.

Bucky lands one hand down next to Steve’s head, and Steve stares as his body follows, lithe and artful. On a hot exhale, he slips his other hand down between them, gripping them both in his palm. “ _Oh,_ ” Steve mumbles, trying not to jerk up too hard, not wanting to throw Bucky off.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “ _yeah,_ yeah—”

It hits hard, tight—Steve’s hand is so tight on Bucky’s thigh he’ll find bruises there later. Bucky gasps on top of him and relaxes, dropping onto his elbow and then his weight down onto Steve so they’re lying chest-to-chest, out of breath.

Bucky’s weight on top of him is comfortable, warm. A little sticky, but Steve will handle that later. He thinks Bucky’s silence is pensive, so he waits it out, letting his hand settle into the narrowest part of Bucky’s waist.

“She said it seemed like I was in love with someone else,” he finally says. His breath is warm on Steve’s bare shoulder.

“What the fuck,” Steve says. “What—who the fuck could she have been talking about?”

Bucky jerks his shoulder. “I have no shitting clue.” He sounds bitter now, but not as sad as he had earlier. “I thought things were going well, you know? But she said she thought she was getting between me and—she didn’t say who.”

Staring at the ceiling, Steve wraps his arms around Bucky. “Like, I’m probably the only person you’re anywhere near to being that close to.”

“Well, maybe Nat.”

Steve hesitates. “Well… _is_ it Nat?”

Without lifting his head, Bucky’s fingertips slide up Steve’s chest; he finds Steve’s nipple, and twists it, hard. When he’s satisfied with Steve’s howling, he lets it go, pats him. “That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard, Steven.”

“Good,” Steve manages, and resists the urge to wipe the tears from his eyes. Bucky will notice. “I mean. Good. Because like…Clint, you know?”

“No, yeah, definitely,” Bucky says. “I mean I still don’t know what the shit Jenna was talking about, but…yeah. No. Not Nat, for sure.”


	5. Chapter 5

It’s been—weird, being around Nat. Ever since that conversation he and Bucky had had about Jenna, Steve’s not sure what he’s supposed to think about her. He’d been pretty sure Bucky had told the truth. But there are also all sorts of reasons why his intuition about that might have been off-kilter, including but not limited to the alcohol he’d ingested that night, the frankly excellent orgasm, the lack of eye contact…

Anyway, it’s not like Steve’s avoiding her. Certainly not on purpose. It’s just that he doesn’t know what to text her that won’t feel weird, and their schedules don’t line up, and then all of a sudden it’s been like two months since he’s seen or spoken to her.

She texts him at 6:15 on a Saturday morning. Steve has to shove at Bucky’s questing, clutching fingers so he can reach his phone. “Fucking Jesus,” he mutters into his pillow.

“What?” Bucky asks, voice warm against the back of his neck.

“Nat wants to go running with me.”

“What, now? What time is it?”

Steve sighs as he receives another text:

_NR: cmon i kno ur up. lets go old man_

“Fuck,” Steve says. “Fucking—shit goddamn.”

Bucky understands; his arm slithers away from Steve’s waist and he turns over, his back to Steve’s back. “Alright, get out of here,” he says, his voice already nudging against sleep. “Let the witch torture you. I’ll be here, comfortable and naked in your bed.”

“She’s not a witch,” Steve says as he gets out of bed, texting with one hand and pulling the covers back up with the other. He takes a second to tuck them in against Bucky’s back.

Bucky mumbles something in Russian, something Steve doesn’t understand but definitely won’t request for translation by the only other person he knows who speaks the language. Instead he pulls his running tights from his top drawer and goes, shutting his bedroom door softly behind him.

“Where’s your husband?” Nat asks when Steve steps out the door a few minutes later. She’d run here, yet she still looks effortless, dewy rather than sweaty, her hair up in a cute ponytail.

“Huh?” Steve asks, trying to squeeze his keys into the pocket on his tights without giving himself a wedgie.

She gives him one of her inscrutable looks, one perfect eyebrow arched. “Where’s Bucky?”

“Still in bed.”

Her lips twitch. “Oh?”

“Yeah, and I’d be there too, if you hadn’t texted me,” he says, falling into step beside her as she starts to jog. “What made you such a morning person, anyway?”

“Don’t make me reveal all my secrets, Rogers,” she says, and laughs when he gives her a glare. They pause at a crosswalk, and she gives him a long stare, the tilt of her lips making him brace for another joke. “So you and Bucky are sharing a bed now, huh? Like, every night?”

He looks at her from the corner of his eyes. She has a perfectly placid, innocent expression on her face, eyes trained on the stoplight ahead of them. “Just sometimes,” he finally says, regretting it even before he says it. “We’re both single, so.”

“Oh, single! Well that’s fine then.”

They run for several seconds in silence, Steve’s heartbeat starting to pick up. Finally, he can’t take it anymore. “Alright, what the fuck does that mean?” he asks.

“No, nothing, nothing,” she says. They run on. “It’s just. For a couple of guys who are just roommates, it seems like you have sex with each other, like, a lot.”

“Not a _lot,_ ” Steve insists. “Just, you know, sometimes.”

Nat hums thoughtfully. “It’s just that I feel like most roommates don’t sleep together ever, let alone sometimes.”

“We’re just friends, Nat.” The nod she gives him is skeptical. “I’ve slept with you, too, haven’t I? And Sam? And we’re all just friends.”

She doesn’t have an answer to that, because he’s right: he and her, he and Sam, they’re all very much _just friends_. Steve’s pretty sure Bucky’s slept with Thor, too, and they’re also just friends. It’s a thing that happens.

“All I know is,” Nat says, barely even short of breath, “I’ve never seen a pair of _just friends_ wear matching suits to Thanksgiving on purpose.”

“My mom said she was bringing her camera!” Steve protests.

“Right.”

Steve knows there’s something she’s not saying and he’s pretty sure he knows what it is. But they run on in silence, because he’s right and she’s wrong.

Bucky’s still in bed when Steve gets back, so Steve pats himself dry with the shirt he’s taken off and flops back onto the mattress, one arm over Bucky, who grumbles. “You smell _terrible,_ ” he says, his voice muffled by the pillow he’s talking into.

“Thanks,” Steve replies, getting comfortable. He snuggles up against Bucky’s back, nudging his face into the warm curve of his neck. Bucky doesn’t smell terrible: he smells warm and soft, sleepy.

His eyes open. Bucky’s hairline is so close to his face it’s blurry. Bucky’s hand curls into Steve’s.

Before he has a chance to completely overthink it, Bucky kicks at his shins through the covers and shoves his arm back. “No. No, you smell so bad. Get out of here. You can’t be in here with me, smelling like that.”

Steve grabs for him again, but Bucky shoves harder, and next thing Steve knows, he’s ass-over-teakettle on the floor. “Bucky, this is _my bed!_ ”

“Don’t tell me you want your bed to smell like body odor,” Bucky says. “Please bathe.”

The problem is, Bucky’s not wrong. Steve gets up and kicks the mattress, making it shake in its frame. Bucky doesn’t even move. “You want to join me?” Steve asks.

Bucky pulls the blanket up over his head. “No,” he replies. “I’m asleep. Go away.”


	6. Chapter 6

Steve’s alone when he wakes up. It’s odd, he thinks: he’d been alone when he’d gone to sleep, too. He and Bucky both had had work events the night before, and when Steve had gotten home to find the house empty he had decided to crawl into Bucky’s bed and surprise him.

Had Bucky met someone and gone home with them? Slept with one of his coworkers? He hadn’t been thrilled about spending so much time with them, but maybe he’d changed his mind.

Steve gets out of bed after a bit and pulls on one of Bucky’s hoodies. It’s not that warm in their place; maybe he’d left a window open the night before and not noticed.

Shuffling into the kitchen, expecting to have to turn on the coffee maker, Steve pauses when he finds Bucky already sitting there, sipping from his favorite WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA mug and poking at his phone. He looks up and squints at Steve. “Did you just get in?” he asks, his eyes trailing over Steve’s shoulders. “I didn’t hear the door open. Is that my hoodie?”

“What? No. I slept here. Did _you_ just get in?”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, just a touch. “You were asleep in my room.”

Steve’s too caffeine-deprived for this conversation. He goes to the coffee maker and pours himself a cup, then sets it to percolate again. They’ll both have second cups. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Where did you think I was going to sleep?”

“ _Your_ room. That’s where I was, waiting for you.”

Steve turns. “You didn’t think to check everywhere?”

Throwing his hands out in a pretty clear _what-the-fuck_ gesture, Bucky shakes his head. “I thought you were still out with your coworkers,” he says. “Why were you in my room?”

“Why were you in mine?”

Bucky blinks. “I was waiting for you. Jeez, sue me for wanting to surprise you.”

Starting to laugh, Steve kicks at Bucky’s ankle. “I was going to surprise you.”

Bucky grins, his eyelashes lowering a little, and gets up so that he can slip onto Steve’s lap. Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s hip without thinking hard about it. “I guess we’re just star-crossed lovers, huh?”

It’s as if a bubble pops in Steve’s mind; he looks up at Bucky, leaning over him, hair tousled on one side. “Bucky, are we, like…married?”

Bucky’s eyebrows draw together. “What?”

Not knowing how to say it without just saying it, Steve half-shrugs. “I mean, are we—I don’t know—do you think we’re basically just, like, in a relationship?”

For a very long moment, Bucky just looks at him. Then he straightens up and reaches for his coffee, leaning back against Steve’s chest as he takes a sip. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” he says. “But I guess so, maybe. Sort of. Why? Does that bother you?”

“I don’t think so.” Steve stops so that he can actually think about it for a second. “It’s kind of nice. Does it bother _you?_ ”

“Only when you say it’s only _kind of nice_ ,” Bucky says, nudging Steve with his elbow.

“Sorry.” Steve grabs his arm to keep from getting elbowed again. “It’s really nice. I love it. Let’s get married.”

“Cool, yeah, let’s go,” Bucky says. “What time does city hall open?”

Their next night out doesn’t end as expected. There’s a knot of six guys loitering at the mouth of an alley. One of them reaches out and pinches Natasha’s ass, so they have to teach them a lesson.

They leave the guys in a moaning pile and head back to Steve and Bucky’s place to recuperate. It’s closest, and Bucky keeps a well-stocked first aid kit for nights like this.

While Natasha helps Sam ice his black eye, Bucky sticks Steve’s hand in a bowl of ice water while he prepares a bandage for his knuckles and a splint for what looks like a broken finger. “It’s lucky we didn’t exchange rings, huh?” he says, sitting on the table and pressing lightly at the swelling over Steve’s knuckles with his thumb.

Trying not to howl, Steve presses his face into Bucky’s thigh. “You’d probably have to cut off my finger to get it off me at this point.”

“I know,” Bucky agrees, running his hand through Steve’s hair and letting his hand rest back in the bowl. “And then where would I put one?”

“I got one idea,” Steve mumbles. He’s coming off the adrenaline, sliding back into drunk and snuggly, made a little pathetic by his hand and the busted lip.

“Uh, _ew,_ ” Sam interrupts before Bucky has a chance to respond. “Also: rings?”

Bucky looks over at them; under his hand, Steve turns his head over on his thigh so he’s looking at them too. Nat looks beautiful, perfect, despite throwing a man to the ground earlier. Steve sneaks a glance at Bucky. Except for a couple of split knuckles, he looks pretty alright too.

“So uh, funny story,” Bucky starts. “We, um. We maybe got married last week. Me and Steve.”

“You and Steve,” Natasha repeats.

“Yeah. We, um, we were kind of thinking that…well we had that pact, right, but then we were sort of thinking—maybe we should just, just start early?”

Steve lifts his hand out of the ice water, and Bucky takes the hint and inspects it again, grabbing a towel to dry his skin off so he can start bandaging him up. Sam and Natasha watch in silence for a long moment.

“And surely,” Sam says finally, “since you didn’t ask either of us to do it. _Surely,_ Steve, you asked your mother to witness the ceremony.”

Jerking up, Steve looks at Bucky, whose face is draining of color as quickly as Steve can feel his. “Bucky,” he whispers. “My _mother._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case anyone was wondering the working title for this fic was "(b)romance" and i very nearly just left it that way when posting but instead decided to go with shakespeare saying roommates are stupidt. you're welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on the [tunbles](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/) thanks!


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